#matchaball

✧✧✧

“It’ll only be one day, Madara.”

“You know what else happened in one day? The fall of an entire nation, Izuna.”

“That was decades ago. It’s time to move on.”

“People don’t forget,” Madara whispers forlornly, curling his fingers and surveying the smooth curves of his fingernails, each with its own dainty crescent indent.

“Regardless,” Izuna huffs, exasperated. “Please take good care of them.”

Madara rolls his eyes, knowing his brother knows he’s done so. “Of course. Have a safe trip. Tell Hinata hello for me. Don’t forget this time, Izuna. Your lack of follow-through is at times unspeakably rude.”

Izuna sighs over the phone, and the line cuts off.

“He hung up on me,” Madara says to himself, clucking his tongue. “His manners are atrocious.”

✧✧✧

Fifteen minutes since Uchiha Madara stepped through the chipped, dusty doorframe of his little brother’s home, he finds himself sitting in the living room with two eleven year old girls on either side of him. There are teen magazines spread around them, nail polishes in several striking colors lined up in front of him, and two dainty hands resting against his knees.

Surprisingly enough, none of these occurrences take the cake for the strangest, most startling development in Madara’s life.

The conversation at hand, however, does.

“Listen, Mayumi. There are approximately three hundred and seven different reasons why silk sheets are superior to,” and here, Madara pauses to swallow some bile down, “cotton.”

“But uncle, what are they?” Michiko asks, peering up at him with her wide-eyed gaze. So young, he thinks, with so much to learn about the world.

“All in due time, Michiko. For now, just know that the atrocities your father has inflicted upon you will be rectified swiftly.”

“What’s an atro—atrossy?”

“For starters, your hair,” Madara admits pitilessly. “Not to mention the décor in this place. You both have been starved of fine living. I’m surprised at your mother, though this is typical of your father.”

“I want black nails,” Mayumi says easily, gesturing to the black nail polish. This particular shade is one of Madara’s favorites, even amongst the armada of polishes he brought over to share with his nieces from his place. Madara gives her an approving look, and picks the polish up with deft fingers. He turns it in his hands and reads the label on the bottom, eyebrows raised.

“This might look black to you, but it is in fact much more. It’s obsidian.”

“Right,” Mayumi agrees smoothly. “I want it on all of my nails but the thumbs.”

“I want it on my thumbs,” Michiko states, “but a different color for the rest.”

Madara hums as he moves the tiny brush meticulously over his first niece’s nails, not getting a single smidge of paint on her skin. “And the other color, Michiko?”

He watches her from the corner of his eye, sees her lift a specific polish, seek its label, and read out, “Crimson Rain.”

“Extraordinary choice,” Madara praises, beaming at her. He finishes painting Mayumi’s nails, excluding her thumbs, and surveys his work with a critical eye. Pleased with his exactitude, he nods to himself and shifts to start on Michiko’s nails. He treats them with the same careful precision, and finishes with a wide flare of his brush over the center of her pointer nail.

“You’re so good at this,” Mayumi points out unnecessarily. Madara very nearly rolls his eyes. Of course he is.

“Of course I am,” he reiterates aloud, casting a speculative glance her way. “Experience is key. Practice is integral. Understand this, and you’ll nail it.”

His pun flies straight over their heads, and his stomach drops. Strike one, he thinks solemnly.

“Mom’s good at it too. Dad gets some paint on my skin sometimes, but he’s okay.”

Madara cringes. “He does?”

“Yup,” Michiko asserts, blowing on her nails and shimmying in her seat.

“Abominable.”

“Like the snowman!”

“Perhaps,” Madara allows, but truth be told, his mind is still clouded with his brother’s apparent failures. Getting nail polish on the skin—what is Izuna, a barbarian?

“There,” Madara announces, when he’s applied the appropriate amount of coats for their nails to really stick and shine. They coo over his work and his ego is properly bolstered, his chest swelling with pride. He flips his hair over his shoulder, careful to keep it out of their hands. Upon walking through the door, his hair had been the first thing they’d wanted to touch, as always.

And, as always, he had denied them.

That was before he realized that he finds their company bolstering, and even quite refreshing.

They have swift learning curves, and are incredibly receptive to his words and actions—this is certainly genetic, on their mother’s side. They retain the lessons he’s deemed acceptable to offer them, and they seem to share several of his key interests. They did immediately understand the difference between mahogany and pine, and that this difference is life-altering.

This is still not enough to change his mind.

“Uncle, have you heard of coconut oil? And how it can help with split ends?”

Madara turns to Mayumi slowly, suspecting a trap. She’s all wide-eyed innocence and open curiosity, wondering at his answer. He’s an impeccable judge of character, and she seems legitimate.

“Coconut oil, you say?”

Michiko nods, climbing over to kneel by her sister. “Yes! Mom uses it and it works really well.”

“What’s the brand?”

Michiko’s expression pinches. “I don’t know.”

Strike two, Madara thinks, as he reevaluates his initial high opinion of his nieces. The fact that they seem unbothered by this does not deter him, or make him think differently. He wonders if this is really the time for another lesson to be learned, along with some pointedly disdainful undertones so that his nieces understand their deficiency in this regard.

“Well,” he says, deciding to move forward without that disdainful remark. They are still rather young, after all. “So tell me. It’s effective?”

The twins have more to say about coconut oil than Uchiha Madara had ever expected to hear in his life, and he is better off because of it. Already he has brand names running behind his eyes, producers and makers in countries around the world that have the capacity and capability to do coconut oil right. He’s already planning communication channels and shipping delays when Mayumi drops another heavy, but welcoming, blow.

“Uncle, have you heard of restorative hand cream?”

Madara doesn’t know how long he sits in front of his nieces and listens to them share their self care secrets for his benefit, but by the time they finish, the moon is in the night sky and there is an owl softly hooting somewhere nearby. His lips have been pursed in concentration for who knows how long by now, and his brow is a knotted, furrowed line of tension.

Even still, he has never felt lighter.

Hinata has been holding out on him, it seems, though he doesn’t blame her. Much. She had probably been distracted trying to convince his travesty of a brother not to wear socks with sandals again, or, God forbid, two different shades and patterns of plaid at the same time.

“Interesting,” Madara says for the umpteenth time, equally sincere as the first.

“Uncle,” Mayumi pauses, expression just this side of expectant. “We know you have connections in other countries.”

Madara sits up a little straighter at this, eyeing his nieces blankly, giving them no sign of his true feelings in the matter. “Hm?”

“Well,” Michiko joins, dragging the word out. “Our shampoo is bought from the supermarket.”

Madara doesn’t breathe for a solid minute; when the air is finally forced into his lungs, it’s through his teeth.

His voice is a roar, deep and thunderous; he says, “No.”

So much betrayal from his own blood, he doesn’t even know where to begin. The least of it is obviously how the twins have just efficiently played him, though he’s already debating forgiving them, simply because they share his tastes. And he finds them interesting. Maybe they had played him, but truly, their intentions are sound; they merely desire the best, just as he does. They just so happen to need him as a middleman in order to receive the best.

He is only too happy to oblige.

The betrayal he cannot let slide, however, comes as it so often does, from his little brother.

The supermarket.

Madara had thought certainly that he had raised Izuna better than this. This deficiency is in no way related to him, but it pains him to wonder if it may in fact be due to Hinata. She is the person he finds most interesting in the world, an amalgamation of cool, calm introversion with the potential of a dangerously manipulative side if threatened. He’s never felt anything but avid respect for Hinata, but if she is to blame for this supermarket fiasco, he may have to reevaluate her, as well.

His brother, however.

Madara is without a doubt going to have words with Izuna.

“Well played,” Madara finally admits to the twins, noting the calculating gleams in their wide eyes. He gives them appraising looks, wondering for only a moment if he would be overstepping his bounds should he foster that manipulative nature into something worthwhile, something treacherous. Their mother would never approve, but he’s fairly certain that Izuna would quietly side with him on this.

Perhaps another time, then. He requires a plan for such fastidious, underhanded work.

“I’ll have the same shampoo and conditioner that I use, imported from Jordan, in your hands by this Wednesday. It’s only a few days away; as such, I suggest not washing your hair until then, not when your only other options are so horrific. The natural oils in your hair are good for it.”

“Understood,” the twins chirp simultaneously, and turn to flick through some of the magazines spread around them. Madara goes to work putting all of his Louboutin nail polishes away in his travel container, careful not to chip any of them with careless handling. Not long after he’s sealed the container, he finds the twins turning their attention back to him, visibly curious.

“Uncle,” Mayumi starts, before Michiko picks up where she left off. “Can you teach us more?”

“Rather vague, Michiko.”

Michiko, apparently already well-learned in the art of self-preservation, does not roll her eyes. However, it seems a close thing.

“Can you teach us,” she repeats, “about ‘fine living?’”

Madara unashamedly brightens like a sunrise, and stands to his full height. He gestures for them to follow him over to the couch, waits for them to sidle up to him, and points derisively at the cushions.

“First lesson,” he begins. “These cushions are an abomination.”

The couch is only the first victim of Madara’s sharp eye, with countless others to follow. Now that he’s been given free reign to do a few of his favorite things—criticize Izuna’s taste (or lack thereof), and display his expert knowledge on all things upper class—he rambles on endlessly, leaving no cheaply glued frame or dusty flower vase without criticism.

In the future, Madara will remember this day fondly—not only as the first true day that he saw the raw potential for elegantly-inclined scholars in his insightful nieces, nor the first day that said nieces pulled out what would ultimately become a tome of Madara’s finely-honed knowledge of the world, but as the first day of an indomitable alliance between he and his nieces.

An alliance that would lead to immeasurable future victories over Izuna, who at that point in time, twitched and began to feel as though something ominous was moving over him.

Mayumi’s pen pauses in her detailed writing, Michiko peering over her shoulder at the words, and when both of them look back up at him expectantly, Madara smiles.

He doesn’t stop talking for the remainder of the night, not even when they’re tucked into their beds and their eyelids droop.

He has a great deal of knowledge to share, after all.

✧✧✧

“Welcome back, Izuna. Hinata. I trust your trip went well.”

“It went,” Izuna huffs, letting his backpack drop to the tile beside the front door. Madara eyes the bag with repulsion, going so far as to cringe away from it.

“You took a backpack, Izuna?”

“Yes? I only needed to carry a few things.”

“Hi, Madara-san.” Hinata greets, moving around her husband to press a kiss to Madara’s cheek, before heading deeper into the house to greet the twins.

Madara remains staring incredulously at the bag on the ground in front of him—is that a hole?—as he addresses Izuna again.

“Izuna, what happened to the carry-on items I gave you for Christmas? They’re designer, and far more practical than that disaster you have there.”

Izuna scowls. “The bags you got me were too big for this trip.”

“Extra space, Izuna. What if you had required more?”

If possible, Izuna’s scowl deepens. His shoulders bow exhaustedly, and there are deep-set lines on the corners of his lips.

“It doesn’t matter anyways,” he says in response, his words coming out quicker than his mind can keep up. “We don’t have them anymore.”

Hinata, who had just appeared in the doorway behind them, gasps. Izuna looks up and sees the expression on her face—knowing, pitying—and looks to Madara and flinches.

“Pardon me,” Madara says slowly, tone utterly glacial. Chills race down Izuna’s spine; the last time he’d been the target of that particular glare, he’d almost lost an arm. He’s fairly certain his only offense, then, had been wearing glow in the dark flip flops. This, it seems, is far worse. “Did I just hear you say that you got rid of the Versace carry-on bags I got you three Christmases ago? The same ones that I had hand-made with real leather, velvet linings, and gold accents, and were imported from France?”

“Madara,” Izuna puts his hands up defensively, abruptly backtracking. He assumes his most placating tone, expression shifting into something downtrodden simply in an attempt to touch at any heartstrings Madara has left in him. It doesn’t really seem to work all that well; Madara appears a step away from murderous.

“You come into my house,” Madara cuts him off, smooth and derisive, even if he is in fact currently within Izuna’s house. “You insult my fine tastes.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Izuna appeases.

“Oh, and I suppose the Greeks never meant to insult the Trojans, Izuna.”

“Are you really equating this situation to the downfall of Troy?”

“Seeing that I feel thusly betrayed,” Madara snarls petulantly, fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“They’re just bags.” Izuna tries again, tone this side of pleading.

“And hell is just a sauna, Izuna.”

“I never even used them!”

“Deception,” Madara begins to sing lowly, tone rumbling. “Disgrace. Evil as plain as the scar on your face!”

“What? I don’t have a scar on my face.”

“Uncle,” Mayumi suddenly says from his side, tugging lightly on the hem of his shirt. “He won’t know that one.”

Madara’s anger, suddenly girded, becomes a passionate display of disappointment. He turns away from Mayumi, back to Izuna, and says, “You’ve never seen The Lion King, Izuna?”

“No?”

“This is,” Madara states sincerely, not blinking once, “The worst day of my existence.”

“Oh, please,” Izuna rolls his eyes, and Hinata cringes over Madara’s shoulder. “Don’t be so dr—”

“Madara-san!” Hinata interjects swiftly, moving around his shoulder and smiling kindly as his eyes flick to her face. “We happened to see this fabric store on our trip, and one of the signs in the window implied the possession of imported silk. I thought you might be interested.”

Madara allows himself to be deterred, refuses to even think about the road Izuna had so clearly been heading down, and turns to Hinata with an appraising expression. He purses his lips, says, “Signs? In the window? A hideous promotional technique.”

But he considers it; there are not many places near his home that sell large quantities of silk, which are specific to his needs. He has hobbies, after all. And no matter how many strongly worded letters he writes to the local Silk Shack (the most detestable of names, certainly, but their silk stock is second to none in this country), they keep refusing to connect him with the general manager.

His last letter had been especially strongly worded, so much so that he had gotten his very first actual response. Their unremarkable deflection attempt was pitiful, he remembers, and their assumption that he would give in so easily to their laziness a far greater offense. He can still remember how heated he’d been while writing his rejoinder, the tip of his quill very nearly piercing through the parchment (imported from Venice) when he wrote,

“I am Konoha! The Morning and the Evening Star! If I say ‘day is night,’ it will be written! Let it be known, now, that your general manager has done your silk business a disservice, and that I will not allow the continued disregard for the elegant material of silk to ensue further. Need I remind you how I conquered the atrocity that was © 1998 Powerade? I think not.

Best, Uchiha Madara”

Madara doesn’t know how many letters he’s going to have to write before they understand that he doesn’t simply want to speak with the general manager, he wants to follow through with a crafty and stylish coup d’état, and assume his position at the helm of the company. That way, he can really do right by the silk industry in this nation, and spread the wonders of silk throughout the lands.

If he really puts his mind to it, he can probably obliterate the entirety of the cotton market.

Madara’s smile is a switchblade’s transition, all sharp edges and full of bite. “Hideous promotional techniques aside…Hinata, do tell me more about this place.”

As Hinata guides him away from the front room and, coincidentally, Izuna, she chatters on about the details she’d managed to catch from their trip past this mysterious silk shop. Madara raises a brow when she mentions its proximity to the post office, and finds himself opening up more and more to the idea of taking over not one, but two silk shops.

He notices Izuna move past him to head for the twins standing in the doorway, dropping to his knees to hug both of them. His little brother coos softly over their painted nails, and smiles patiently while they recount several of the lessons that Madara had ingrained in them in their short time together. Izuna’s shoulders hunch when they mention flip flops and the term “atrocity” in the same sentence, but Madara swells with pride. His lessons, it seems, were not taught in vain.

He thanks Hinata graciously for her information she offered on the new silk shop, which she tells him is called Fine Comforts. Simple, if a little tasteless.

“Well, as it seems, my duties here have come to an end.”

Instantly, the twins both groan and ask him to stay a little while longer. While he admires their passion, he clucks his tongue at their lack of self-control.

“I have a cell-phone,” he allows, after a considering pause. “Feel free to use it.”

“Please do,” Izuna nearly begs, and Madara turns to him with a deadpan expression.

“Do not pretend you don’t enjoy our chats, Izuna.”

Izuna looks pained, and Hinata laughs behind her hand.

“All you do is reference movies and books I’ve never seen and read, and complain about fashion and home décor.”

Madara scoffs. “What else is there to discuss in life?”

Izuna purses his lips, sounding hopeful. “Anything else?”

“Call me when you come up with something substantial,” Madara turns, opening the door and stepping over the threshold. “Oh, and Izuna? Expect a package on Wednesday.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“It’s nothing uncouth,” Madara promises with a haughty sniff, glancing over to Hinata with a nod. He turns his heavy-handed stare to the twins, considering. After a long moment of weighing their successes versus their failures, he decides that their alliance can only truly be sealed with an act of genuine, powerful trust.

As such, he kneels over the threshold of Hinata and Izuna’s front door and gestures for them to come over to him. Izuna watches with wide-eyed curiosity, lips parting in surprise.

“Mayumi, Michiko, I am going to offer the both of you an extremely rare gift. Cherish it properly, and understand it’s significance, and you’ll be more likely to receive exposure to it again in the future.”

“A present?” Mayumi asks, and Madara rolls the thought of it around in his mind for less than a moment before saying, “Yes.”

He re-situates himself until he’s kneeling, and wraps an arm around each of his nieces, pulling them in close. He hears twin gasps in his ears as their cheeks press against his, and their noses touch his hair. Izuna’s gasp, however, is the loudest of all. Madara hugs them close, though not too tightly, and whispers, “If you play your cards right, girls, our alliance will prosper. In all regards.”

The twins hug him tightly, careful not to touch his hair more than necessary, for which he is eternally grateful. He pulls back first, standing to his full height and patting their heads dotingly. When he glances up at Izuna, his little brother is openly gaping.

“You hugged them?”

Madara stares at him with his typical deadpan expression.

Izuna stutters, even when Hinata comes up to his side and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. She looks a comical blend of amused and pitying.

Izuna blurts, “You only hug me once a year!”

“That is true, yes,” Madara nods, tilting his head at his little brother. “You haven’t yet earned a higher quota.”

“How in the world did they earn a higher quota? What have you done, Madara?”

If Madara had not been so scornful of Izuna envying his own progeny, he would have smirked outright.

“Poor form, Izuna. They’re your daughters.”

“Yeah,” Izuna agrees coarsely, all rough edges and narrowed eyes. “And you did something dangerous, didn’t you?”

“Dangerous for whom, I wonder?”

“Madara.”

“Afraid not, Izuna. Afraid not.”

“Madara, don’t walk out that door without answering me.”

Madara turns, flipping his hair over his shoulder and basking in the way the breeze causes the ends of it to flutter. He’s certain that, in this moment, he looks just the same way that Pocahontas had when she was standing at the cliff’s edge, gesturing farewell to John Smith, hair blowing in the wind.

His gaze lands squarely on Izuna’s, and his lips curl at the edges with devious commitment. With one parting remark, spoken sharp and true as any declaration of battle, so does Madara initiate the Uchiha Brother War.